


destroyer of worlds.

by moonny



Series: Lover. [1]
Category: Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluffy Angst, angsty fluff, luckily claire has -1 perception, owen tries to make his deep and genuine love for claire not be too obvious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonny/pseuds/moonny
Summary: 144 hours, post-incident. 6 days of media frenzies, legalities, and lawsuits. 6 days later, they find each other again. Life is not like the movies.





	destroyer of worlds.

**OWEN REMEMBERS COSTA RICA,** the way he remembers his own name. Sleepy, simple, ruminating in the scent of brine, petrichor, and palm leaves. It’s a nice memory, and it isn’t. He remembers the sting of frigid air, too, twenty-two thousand miles above their rendezvous point; leaping out of a C-130, enduring clandestine insertion into a jungle rife with _ tangos. _

Okay. So it _ isn’t really _ like remembering his own name, at all.

He counts the hours, restless, hyper-alert. It’s been almost a week. **One hundred and forty-four hours, post-incident. ** He thinks: before it happened, he may have almost forgotten what the _ paranoia _ felt like, the way it seeped into the bone marrow, colored every aspect of his life _ red and buzzing, _ like a warning, a bullhorn. But no. It just comes back, as if it had never left (it hadn’t). And he lets it, almost welcomes it. It makes him **focused.** Tunnel-visioned. Objective. At least, it should have.

Priorities tend to dull, blur around the edges, twist into a feminine shape with** red, red hair **and long legs tense over nude-pink heels.

Owen stays in Costa Rica out of some twisted, misguided sense of _ personal accountability. _ He goes through the legalities, provides a statement to the appropriate authorities, deals with damage control. Needs to be sure that the animals in Isla Nublar will be managed, safe. Owen has the foresight to know the aftermath will be unpleasant; there will be a fierce debate over which course to take— shut down Jurassic World entirely, euthanize the animals. Or else, reopen the park a few months from now, let InGen downplay the tragedy and insist that it was an _ isolated incident, _

(as every incident claims to be, whenever a dinosaur decides to **eat people**).

He’s surprised to see her, when he turns a corner— the hotel’s corridor is narrow, quaint, and there, ahead of him, _ Claire Dearing _ is fumbling with her keycard. Her hands are shaking. Her hair is mussed, curly. She looks as though she hasn’t slept in as many days as he has spent _ awake. _

“Claire.” He says her name as if it’s meant to redirect her attention, divert it to himself. He says her name, but it sounds like a solemn, quiet order: _ look at me _. It serves its purpose. A toss of scarlet curls, her face whipping in his direction; blue eyes rheumy, doe-caught-in-headlights wide. She drops her keycard.

Claire stares. Owen almost feels self-conscious, wonders what he must look like. Two inches over six feet as he stands, bleached jeans, a thin button-down shirt with the sleeves up to his wrists. She’s in a pencil skirt, blazer, chiffon blouse. _ Typical, _except that she looks uncomfortable in them, as if she’s worn the ensemble for days, worn it like an iron mask.

“Mr. Grady.”

Back to surnames. It makes his jaw set.

“Owen,” He corrects her, and it isn’t like before. Nothing playful. He says it like a reproach, not a reminder. Steps forward, bends, reaches for her keycard. With a much steadier hand, he opens the door to her hotel suite. Claire thanks him, quietly, almost meekly, too tired to argue. He just nods, curt. “How’ve you been holdin’ up?”

“I’ve been… busy.”

“Me too. It’s been hectic for all of us. I couldn’t reach you.”

Claire doesn’t answer. Owen wonders if she’s angry with him. The last thing he had said to her, before the media came in hoards and droves and things became a mess of legalities and lawsuits and ethics—— she’d asked him what they should do. Together. Used the word_ we_. And he had answered **_stick together._**

He had made no promises, and, realistically, they were both needed elsewhere. As the assets manager, Claire Dearing acts as the figurehead at fault. InGen wants a scapegoat. One hundred and forty-four hours, and this isn’t what she needs. Interview after interview, public announcements, public apologies, lawsuits at her heels.

He should have convinced her to leave. Take the first flight out of Costa Rica, be with her family. Owen, himself, can’t. Too many loose ends. Too many questions. Things Hoskins had said—- weaponizing genetically engineered apex predators for military field operations. Owen knows how this will play out, almost instinctively. Foreboding. Inevitably FUBAR.

Claire asks, “Would you like to come in?”

It surprises him. Claire doesn’t look at him. She seems to regret the offer entirely, immediately; will blame it on her own fatigue, stress, or maybe she _owes_ him. She hurries into the room, not waiting for an answer. She leaves the door open.

Owen enters.

The suite itself is fairly simple. Bigger than the other rooms, but quaint, homey. There’s a kitchenette, and a smaller sitting room, and a bedroom down the hall. The windows are panoramic, with a balcony. It’s nice, but it isn’t excessive. Claire could have chosen a _five-star hotel_. Attempting small-talk, Owen asks why she doesn’t.

“I would’ve figured you’d go for the Hilton. Somethin’ classier.”

She answers, “It’s too obvious. Crowded. I… I like that this is a little out of the way.”

Claire is peeling off her blazer, as Owen wanders towards the kitchenette, eyes the bottle of wine on the counter, **nearly empty.** He gestures to it. “You’ve been havin’ people over?”

“No.”

Owen looks as though he might frown, brows drawn. Her answer is short, nearly flippant, but he is quick to understand what this means. She’s been drinking the bottle herself. Alone. He watches her approach him, and then her hands reach for the wine. Pours herself a glass, fills it to the brim.

“I’ve had a long day, Owen,” she tells him, resigned.

“I’m sorry.”

Claire is raising the wineglass to her lips, pauses, _gawks_ at him. Quietly stunned. “For what?”

Owen only lets his shoulders roll, shrug, noncommittal. Folds his arms over his chest, leaning a hip against the counter's edge.

He calls room service, orders a meal for two. _Something for the wine,_ he explains, calm, nonthreatening. Ignores her half-hearted protests. Owen doesn't do this to be_ nice._ He does it because it’s **right,** and because he wants to. Objective kindness. It is the only answer she can _stomach,_ right now. They eat together, in awkward silence. Claire: coy, exhausted. Owen: sleepless, grim. Both, _affected._ He makes a few jokes, as his fork sifts around steamed vegetables and grilled strips of sirloin steak. She rolls her eyes at him. They cope.

**One hundred and forty-five hours, post-incident.** She’s tipsy. Sways on her heels. Two glasses of wine, attempts a third. Owen puts the dishes away, washes them in the sink. His hands are warm when he closes one of them around her wrist, pries the wine bottle way from her with the other. Reasonably, Owen suggests she should sleep.

She agrees. Stumbles as she slides off the chair. Owen still holds her wrist. A palm steadies against her hip. He helps her to the bedroom, a smallish square space. A very large bed occupies most of it. And it’ll be hard to imagine even as it happens, a bear of a man tentatively setting her onto the edge of the bed, peeling off her heels, prepared to tuck her in.

Claire tugs at his arm, fingers catching fistfuls of his sleeve, stretching the fabric. He understands the gesture, but isn’t sure if he should indulge it. “Please?” Claire says, in a small voice, a vaguely selfish voice. This is for her peace of mind, not his.

He kicks off his shoes. She makes room for him. Owen joins her, feels the mattress dip under his weight. Tucks the blanket over them both, and she curls into him, smelling like wine and vanilla. She rests her head on his shoulder, his arm under her neck. He’s tense. _Restless._ Owen doubts he’ll sleep.

She can feel it. Seems to want him to relax. Her arm slings over his stomach, pulls herself a little closer, flushed along his side. Claire shifts, slides her body up against him, kisses his mouth. He doesn't move, lips thinned, pursed. She kisses his brow, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. Warmth blooms underneath his skin, not at all unpleasant. His instincts flare, as if he were in danger. Owen smothers it. He resolves to be careful.

A hand reaches for her hair, drags his fingers through it. Grips it. Pulls her back. Claire’s mouth parts, exhales, her pupils dilated. He massages her scalp, and tells her_ no. _Tells her,_ go to sleep_. The way he slides his hand against red, red curls is meant to make it feel less like a** rejection.** Because it isn’t.

Claire is too tired to argue. Doesn’t. She nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck. Owen can feel her breath against his pulse, just underneath his jaw. She kisses it, as it thrums. Concedes.

Drunk, exhausted, Claire mumbles, “I could ruin you, you know.”

Owen says nothing. He knows. She could. She has.


End file.
